


If You Pardon We Will Mend

by Penknife



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergence - In Hushed Whispers, Gen, Red Lyrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-08 02:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21227990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/pseuds/Penknife
Summary: They can still undo it all, if the Herald will just hurry up and appear to let Dorian out of this cell.





	If You Pardon We Will Mend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venndaai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/gifts).

The Herald of Andraste will be here soon. Dorian cherishes the thought when the red lyrium crawls under his skin, at those moments when the pain becomes unspeakable and he huddles in a corner of the cell and swears in every language he knows. The Herald of Andraste was sent forward in time, and one day soon he will come walking through the castle doors and Dorian will explain everything. They can still undo it all, if the Herald will just hurry up and appear to let Dorian out of this cell.

He’s tried talking Alexius into letting him out, but Alexius is beyond reason. Dorian tried pointing out that infecting him with red lyrium was an inefficient use of Alexius’s resources.

“You’ll be more motivated if you know you’re running out of time,” Alexius insisted, the red lyrium already burning through Dorian’s veins, spreading farther with every heartbeat. “Like Felix. Like me.”

The amusing irony of it is that Dorian wanted nothing more than to help Alexius research how to reverse the flow of time. If Alexius had only trusted him, he could have worked out how to do the trick, stepped back neatly through time, and removed that inconvenient amulet from around Alexius’s neck before he had time to do any mischief with it. Problem solved, time for drinks all around. 

“I think it’s time for a drink, don’t you?” Dorian says now, selecting a bottle. Alexius has allowed him both wine and books, and not only those related to Alexius's futile quest to travel back to a time before the Breach. It’s entirely possible that Alexius actually still cares for him, which isn’t much of a comfort under the circumstances. He had believed for a while that the comforts came from Felix, but the last time he saw Felix, it became clear that wasn’t at all likely anymore.

“You drink too much,” The Iron Bull says, his back against the bars of the next cell, looking at the opposite wall rather than at Dorian. Red sparks crackle around his eyes and crawl like static over the surface of his horns.

“Yes, I’m sure it’s bad for my health,” Dorian says, and tips the bottle up to drink. He passes the bottle through the bars, and The Iron Bull drinks and hands it back without further comment.

When they brought the Qunari prisoner in, Dorian watched him rage and threaten and slam himself against the bars, and wondered if this was a particular punishment for him: the company of someone who refused to talk to him was worse than having no company at all.

Eventually the big man slid down to sit with his back to the stone, breathing in shuddering heaves as if rage were finally giving way to the extremity of fear. “I’m not telling you anything,” he said after a while.

“I assure you I’m as much a prisoner here as yourself.”

“That’s what they all say,” the Qunari said.

Dorian can’t remember now when The Iron Bull decided Dorian wasn’t a spy for Alexius. It might have been when the red lyrium began to erupt in malignant jewels through Dorian’s skin. Or when Felix stopped being able to remember Dorian’s name, and for several days Dorian refused to do anything but drink. Or one of the nights they spent not sleeping, mostly not talking, sitting back to back against the cell bars to stay a little warmer.

“The Herald of Andraste will be here soon,” Dorian says now.

The Iron Bull snorts. “You don’t know.”

Dorian is certain that he does know. His calculations are free of error, and were complete before the red lyrium crept out of Dorian’s dreams to make the waking world ripple and burn. The Herald will appear one day, stepping out of nothing, and from everything The Iron Bull says, that man won’t give up without a fight. He’s certain of that, too. It’s the obvious logical conclusion.

And the alternative to certainty is despair, and if Dorian gives in to the temptation to despair, he won’t be here when he’s needed. The thin sliver of hope hurts, a bright pain like the lyrium that needles out from under his fingernails, but he can’t let go.

“It has to be soon,” he hears himself say, because sometimes he can’t keep fear from crawling its way out of his chest. It would be the cruelest irony if the Herald comes and he’s too far gone to reverse the spell. If he’s entombed in lyrium already, if he can’t hold a staff, if he can’t speak—

“And then we’ll tear this place apart,” The Iron Bull says, and that’s better. If Dorian can stay angry, he can carry on believing that there’s still some way for them to win.

“Promises, promises,” Dorian says, and rests his back against Bull’s through the cold cell bars.


End file.
